The Interview
by SilverInkblot
Summary: In the aftermath of Kamino Ward, everyone has questions for All Might, and he's willing to brave the media circus to soothe their fears. When a small-time journalist makes him pause with a question that no one has ever thought to ask before, Yagi Toshinori, not All Might, is the one who answers.
1. The Interview

Might Tower is imposing, even on a clear day. Now, with the storm clouds rolling overhead, you could easily imagine it as a supervillain's lair. You sigh wistfully, thinking of the umbrella you left on the bus.

You enter the lobby through the double doors and immediately head for the press entrance. The security clearance is swift and painless - metal detector, ID, page though your notebook, nothing terribly invasive. The guard that has just finished patting you down gives an apologetic smile and a temporary badge that you clip on to your jacket. You ignore the main elevator and walk quickly over the glossy floor, passing the information desk where another guard is chatting up the redheaded secretary, and several cased displays of memorabilia, detailing both large and small moments in the long career of All Might.

The smaller elevator you've been directed to is tucked against the back wall and you swipe the badge, nodding to the guard with more confidence than you actually feel. You were invited here after all, one of dozens of reporters clamoring for the opportunity to interview All Might in the aftermath of Kamino Ward.

You nearly fell out of your chair when the boss tossed the press packet on your desk. It wasn't until later, after the initial shock wore off, that things began to make a little more sense - the small-time office you work at __was __destroyed in the hero's final fight. Even though you knew All Might was personally footing the bill for a significant amount of the reconstruction, you wouldn't put it past your boss to put a guilty spin on the request for an interview; it was a small price to pay for recompense, surely?

You shake these thoughts off as the elevator stops at the 48th floor, just a few flights short of the top. The door opens with a musical __ding__ and you find yourself in an open room covered in a creamy golden carpet. The walls are a rich, warm brown between vast swaths of windows overlooking the cityscape. Large rectangular frames decorate the walls at regular intervals; the nearest one is just a few steps from the elevator, and you realize that they're movie posters. You can see some superhero films, as expected, but also a Western, a few sci-fi flicks, some sort of period drama, and, surprisingly, a couple of animated movies. The one you're looking at is autographed, and you suspect the same is true of every poster in this room.

"Admiring my collection?"

The voice is deep and smooth, a far cry from the boisterousness of All Might, but you jump all the same. The man himself is standing on the other side of the room, hands clasped loosely behind his back, apparently watching the city as he waited for your arrival. He raises his arms in a placating motion at your start with a sheepish grin.

"Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to startle," he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.

__He's tall__ is the first thing in your mind. You knew that of course, intellectually, but seeing it in person is another thing entirely. All Might towers over you even slouched as he is, folded over on himself as though he's afraid to take up too much space. His face is gaunt, but not unpleasant, blond hair bursting from his head like a sunflower. Long, spindly limbs stretch from his torso - all in all, he looks more like a scarecrow than a professional hero, even a retired one. You jolt again when you realize he's watching you, waiting for a response.

"Ah, no, sorry - I was the one spacing out."

It's your turn to fumble, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, clutching at your notebook a little tighter. You jump one more time when he throws back his head and laughs.

"Well, miss," he swings an arm wide. "Welcome to Might Tower! I have to say, you got up here faster than any of the others."

You furrow your brow. __Faster__? He doesn't wait for you to ask.

"I let the security team give visitors a little hell when they get a bit too entitled." There's a spark of mischief in his grin. "Gives me an idea of what's coming for me."

You can't help the breathy giggle that escapes, lifting a hand to stifle it.

"So, me being the fastest…"

"Tells me that you're polite, and probably of a rather calm disposition," he nods with a wink. He moves away from the window towards the middle of the room where two overstuffed couches sit on either side of a wooden coffee table.

"Please, have a seat. Can I offer you some tea?"

"Oh, yes, thank you." A hot cup of tea sounds delightful after the chill outside. You seat yourself in the middle of the couch.

All Might looks startled at your easy acceptance for a moment then laughs again. He shuffles over to a small counter against the wall, still chuckling.

"I've been making that offer to every reporter that's come up here for almost two weeks," he sounds genuinely pleased. "This is the first time anyone's taken me up on it!"

He bustles about, grabbing dishware and sugar packets, setting a kettle on a small warmer. He loads everything on to a silvery tray, leaving the water to boil. The tray is placed on the dark wood between you and he settles himself on the opposite couch.

"You're from the Kamino office, yes? The one caught in the crossfire?" His tone takes on a more somber note. You can see the guilt resting in the lines of his face and you find yourself rushing to reassure the former hero.

"Yes, but it's not your fault!" You cringe inwardly, worried your voice was a little too loud, too eager.

"No one was there that night anyway and, well, the building wasn't all that great." You offer a timid smile that grows a little wider when the tension in his shoulders eases.

"All the same," All Might runs a hand through his mane of blond hair. "I __am__ sorry," he looks tired, guilty, and you search for something to say.

"It's okay. Really!" Your voice is too loud again when it looks like he doesn't believe you. "I'm looking forward to working in a nicer office. Something with an open floor plan, maybe a few more windows."

He chuckles at your burst of enthusiasm. It's a low sound that rumbles around the room like distant thunder. A moment later, you realize it was thunder - you forgot all about the storm brewing outside. You glance over; it isn't raining, not yet, but there are streaks of water against the large windows. All Might hums in the back of his throat, pushing himself off the couch.

"That's one of the things I like about these tall buildings," he moves to grab the steaming kettle.

"You like the rain?"

Steam billows from the spout as he pours water over the tea leaves.

"I do. I find it soothing." He places a small cup on your side of the table before pouring his own.

"Well," you decide to tease him a little. "I suppose being a hero is quite the stressor."

"Indeed," he takes a sip. "But I doubt you're here to make small talk about the weather."

Right. The interview. To business then. You open up your notebook and click your pen.. Am interview with All Might - the number one hero and dream client of every journalist. The rest of the office was seething with jealousy, but you'd been chosen for this because… well, nevermind that now.

You didn't want to think about why.

"So… uh…"

He's casually stretched out on the couch, one arm resting along the back, legs folded over each other at the knee, waiting. Your throat feels suddenly dry, tongue cumbersome in your mouth. There's a memory of grit in your eyes, blood on your lips.

You thought you were ready for this; you thought the questions on the first page of your notebook would be enough to guide you through your nerves. The pen in your hand clicks and clicks before it suddenly slips from your sweaty hand. You fumble and fail to catch it before the pen bounces off the coffee table and lands on the carpet. All Might reaches to grab it just before you, long arms stretching impossibly far and you jerk back before your heads collide. He offers the pen back with an easy smile, and you can feel your face heating up as you take it.

"I'm doing this all wrong, aren't I?"

You pinch the corners of your eyes, frustrated and embarrassed. He surprises you by chuckling and leaning forwards.

"It's perfectly all right," he says with a light pat to your knee. "I promise you, this won't be the worst interview I've taken part in. Take a breath, dear, and ask me what you want to know."

You do so, holding the air in your lungs a moment before letting go with a noisy exhale. You're still fidgety, twisting the pen around your fingers, and it doesn't escape his notice. He laughs again.

"There's no need to be nervous," he leans back into the plush couch. "I've given so many interviews over the years - there's not a lot left you can shock me with." His smile is crooked like he's trying not to laugh again, and he gives you a cheery thumbs up.

"I - well…"

You look down at the notebook in your lap, scanning the questions your boss and co-workers have scribbled down. It's the usual parade All Might has been getting for thirty years - __what's your Quirk? What advice would you give to aspiring heroes? Are you single?__ \- alongside a new set that has been making the rounds for the past few weeks - __what will you do now? How could you hide this for so long? Is your presence at the school putting the students in danger?__

You came here to ask these questions, but suddenly find yourself annoyed. You want to rip the page out, crumple it into a ball, and set it on fire. Instead, you sigh and carefully tear the page out, passing the sheet to All Might.

"You're right; there's nothing on this page that you haven't been asked before." You can see his eyes passing quickly over the list.

"You must be tired of giving the same answers over and over again."

"It's all part of the job, my dear," he passes the page back, still smiling.

"The job…"

Something in the way he says it gives you pause.

"But… being a hero wasn't just a job to you, was it?"

He doesn't answer, cocking his head to one side, sensing you have more to say. You rush forward, before the thought escapes.

"I mean, you've never just done the bare minimum - everything is above and beyond with you. You always have time for fans and autographs, there's always a charity donation, always another villain, another rescue. You've given so much more than you ever had to."

All Might isn't smiling now, and you feel tears spring to your eyes.

"You've given so much - your time, your body, your health, to a world that takes and takes and never offers anything back. Even now, after everything… after you've given everything… people out there are trying to bring you down. And you're still here, just giving the answers to people that are going to use them against you."

You really are crying now, slow tears crawling over your cheek before being roughly wiped away.

"I - I don't want to be another person that just takes something from you. But there's nothing I can give."

You've been looking down this entire time, watching the stains on your notebook get bigger, but look up when a hand enters your field of vision. All Might is leaning forward again, sliding his palm across the side of your face as his calloused thumb brushes your tears away. His smile is gentle and sad and the tenderness of the gesture is enough to make you cry harder, burying your face in your hands.

There's a soft rustle from across the table and you feel the dip of the couch as All Might settles beside you, one arm resting across your back and shoulders. You sense rather than hear his quiet murmurs, vague sensations of __it's alright__ and __don't be sorry__, and you realize that you've been apologizing for the last half-minute. You aren't even sure why - for crying? For everything he's lost? For the vultures circling, waiting to take even more from this good, impossibly kind man?

Something in your chest aches and you fold your palms over your heart, bent double, and his hand is still on your back, sliding up and down between your shoulder blades, rubbing little circles along your spine. He sits quietly and lets your sorrow run its course around him, like a boulder in a river. Each small kindness - his patience, the offer of tea, the soft half-hug he has you wrapped in - has only magnified his humanity. He's __All Might __\- he's been a hero for longer than you've been __alive__, but here, his weakened form warm against your side, all you can think about is the blood he left on the ground that night, his uselessly broken arm dangling limp from the socket, the tattered cape he ripped apart with his teeth and used to tourniquet the leg of a woman rescued from the rubble.

Because you lied - there was someone in the office that night. You had slept there, pushing yourself towards a deadline you knew, that your boss knew, you weren't going to be able to meet. It was why your boss gave this job to you; you were the only one who'd had a front row seat. You were there when the ground shook you awake, the shockwave of the battle rattling the windows from over half a kilometer away. You were there with the crowd panicking in the street, confused, terrified, lost as the world simply crumbled and collapsed with each explosion. You were there as he stood alone against an enemy you couldn't comprehend, that none of you could comprehend, alone against an unimaginable evil that sapped his strength and wore him down and broke him over and over again and he was still there, still standing between darkness and the people he swore to protect.

Once you've cried yourself out, some semblance of awareness of the world begins to return. You sit up slowly and All Might removes his arm, standing and grabbing the tea set from the table. He pours the lukewarm water away and begins a fresh pot, politely allowing you a few moments to gather yourself. You close your eyes and recline into the couch, letting your spine stretch itself out again, and breathe deeply for a few minutes. A soft __clink__ tells you that All Might is back and you open your eyes to find him offering a new cup of tea with that same sad, gentle smile.

You reach out with a small __thanks__ and if your fingers tremble a little, he doesn't say anything.

"Sorry. Again."

He pauses a moment while pouring his own cup.

"You know," he places the teapot back on the tray.

"Many, many people have cried on me. Terrified children, thankful parents. Over-eager fans," his grin is a little cheeky here, and you find yourself returning the sentiment despite yourself.

"Tears of relief, fear, joy," he gazes into his teacup like it holds all the mysteries of the universe. He looks up and you find yourself trapped by the intensity of his gaze.

"But this is the first time someone's ever cried for __me__."

His eyes are full of strength and pride, gratitude and something else, something you have no name for. He holds you there for several heartbeats, each one pulsing in your ears until you can't help but blink and the moment is gone. He sets his cup down.

"So thank you." The sad smile is back.

"Thank you for crying for me."

Your eyes are beginning to prickle again, and you hurriedly wipe the feeling away with a sniff. He takes a sip from his cup and looks away, giving you a moment to shuffle and settle. You take another deep breath.

"A-anyway," your voice is shaky, but you do your best to press on.

"I guess… what I want to ask… well, no, I don't want to ask anything really." You really have messed this up, haven't you? This interview has gone completely off the rails; you can already hear your boss yelling at the mess you've made. All Might reaches for your cup.

"Here, take a drink," his voice is easy, placating. "Just breathe, dear."

You wonder if he knows; if he knows you were there that night and that it's all you can think about in this moment. The tea is sweet and the heat at your fingers steadies you, moves you away from the taste of blood. One more deep breath.

"I… what I want to know is… what do you want to say?"

He blinks at you with a puzzled expression. You bite at the inside of your bottom lip, not entirely sure yourself what you're asking. He hums, fiddling with his bangs, clearly thinking, but you can't read his expression at all.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

It's your turn to blink. His smile is cheerful again, with a hint of playfulness.

"I'm sorry?"

"Thirty-five years," he leans his elbows on to his keens, hands folded together, dangling between his legs. "Thirty-five years I've been a professional hero, and not once in all that time has anyone simply asked me what I wanted to say." His eyes have you pinned on the couch like an ungainly butterfly and you cross and uncross your ankles.

"Sorry - I'm not very good at this, am I?"

All Might throws back his head and laughs. He laughs and laughs, deep from his stomach, hair brushing against the back of the couch, and you can't help but feed off his joy, your own laughter small and soft in comparison, but there all the same. It cuts off abruptly when he coughs suddenly, one hand against his mouth, the other clutching at his left side.

"Are you okay?!" Now you're the one reaching out, not quite brave enough to touch him, but he waves you off.

"It's fine, I'm fine, this happens all the time," there's a smear of red at the corner of his lips. But his smile hasn't wavered, so you decide to trust his judgement and let it go. Your expression must still betray your concern, because he offers an explanation.

"It's the result of an old wound," your eyes flick to where his left hand is bunched in his shirt. "Really, I'm used to it." His grip loosens and falls away.

"I've already cried for you today; don't think a few platitudes are going to keep me from worrying about you too." The quip leaves your lips before you can even think about stopping it and you want to slap your hand over your mouth and take it back even as your face flushes red.

All Might laughs yet again, this time more of a asthmatic chuckle that makes your heart skip, ready to reach out if he starts coughing again.

"Thank you, my dear. Truly." His eyes are shining in amusement. "But in regards to your question - may I think about it?"

You pause a moment, trying to remember what the question that started all this was.

"Oh - about what you'd like to say, you mean?"

He nods. "I'd like to mull it over for a little while, if that's alright with you?"

"Of course," you reach into one pocket, then the other before finding what you need. Your business card is simple - name, work number, e-mail, web address. He takes it between his long fingers.

"Please, take as long as you need," you offer a small bow from your seat on the couch.

"Thank you," All Might stands and offers you a hand up. "I look forward to speaking with you again."

You take his hand and he walks with you to the elevator. It still hasn't started to rain outside - perhaps you can make the bus stop before the bottom drops out.

"Ah, you can just call or e-mail me if you like - we don't have to meet in person."

There's a flicker of something on his face before he manages to school it into something more neutral.

"You don't want to talk to me again?"

"No! I mean yes! I'd love to talk to you again! I just thought that you're so busy and you might not want to waste time in person and I'm really not very good at interviewing so maybe you'd prefer something else," you're babbling, you know you're babbling, but you can't seem to stop yourself. You realize abruptly that the micro-expression you'd seen on his face was one of hurt. He places a hand on your shoulder and you cease speaking.

"I would love to talk to you again," his voice is deep and kind. "You did wonderfully; this has been one of my favorite interviews." His smile stretches all the way across his face.

"I - thank you," you drop your head in a hasty nod, sure that you're blushing again. His hand drops your your shoulder and presses the elevator button.

"By the way," All Might sounds hesitant for the first time all afternoon. You turn to him, puzzled.

"Do you like movies?"

You smile, thinking of his poster collection. "Well, not as much as you seem to. I don't really go to the theater all that often." The elevator __dings__ and you turn to enter before facing him one more time.

"Thank you again. For everything."

You hope he understands what you mean by __everything__. His hands are in his pockets and his body language is relaxed.

'You're welcome."

You think he does.

* * *

_Oh, hello there. Haven't uploaded here in, what, eight years? Thankfully, I've used that time to become a much better writer. _


	2. The Cafe

Weeks after Kamino Ward, he still wasn't used to being recognized in this form. It didn't happen nearly as often of course, but often enough that he missed the anonymity. The fervor was dying down as the public accepted their new reality, but Toshinori was still frequently stopped for autographs and pictures. He was always happy to oblige, despite being baffled by the attention he received as a civilian.

Nearly every interaction ended with gratitude on behalf of the requester, and never a simple "thanks for the picture" either - some forwent requests altogether and just wanted to shake his hand, recognize his efforts. He smiled through it all, but had a different response inwardly:

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't do more. I'm sorry I can no longer protect you._

No one has stopped him today; he wonders if it's the scarf that the lower half of his face is buried in has kept him from being recognized. Perhaps Aizawa has the right idea after all.

It's a chilly afternoon and it makes his bones ache, particularly his recently broken-and-healed-yet-again arm. He keeps hand warmers in all his coat pockets these days. Toshinori shuffles along the sidewalk, slouched and in no real hurry. There's no class today and, for the moment, his schedule is open. The day is pleasant despite the nippy air, so he opted to enjoy the sunshine with a meandering walk to nowhere in particular.

He wanders about idly, taking turns at random, eyes roving the window displays. He finds himself not far from a new cafe he'd heard some of his students talking about not long ago. Someone - Shiozaki maybe? - had been excited about it; the place was being opened by a few friends. He makes his way to the crosswalk and waits for the light to change.

The bell over the door jingles pleasantly as he enters and pulls the scarf away from his face. The young man behind the register can't be much older than twenty. He greets Toshinori happily.

"Welcome! What can I get youuu-"

His eyes go wide in recognition as Toshinori approaches the counter, looking at the chalkboard menu. He gives an easy smile to the startstruck cashier before ordering a green tea and a biscuit. The boy manages to punch the buttons and stammer the order back to him with minimal awkwardness and hands him a number placard. He takes it with a cheery _thank you! _and turns to find a table.

The building is small, but the layout is open enough that even he has some legroom. The tile is a textured white over which an assortment of round and square tables have been arranged. Installed at the windows is a bar-like area with stools overlooking the street, while two long benches with powder blue cushions align the walls. Near the front are three students who look to be on a study date, and at the back left -

His long legs carry him over the tile in a few strides. She doesn't notice him draw close, absently munching on a sugar cookie and swiping the crumbs away from the pages of the book lying open on the table. He lays a hand idly on the back of the chair across from her, watching a moment. She's propped up on her elbow, knuckles pressed against her cheek, oblivious to the man barely a table-length away. Toshinori clears his throat.

"Is this seat taken?"

She starts and nearly drops the cookie, crumbs scattering over the pages. Wide eyes rake over his form as she tilts her head up to meet his face and he scratches the back of his neck and laughs.

"Sorry! I don't mean to make a habit of startling you."

He watches her expression change from surprise to embarrassment as she finally recognizes him, setting the cookie down on a napkin.

"I, uh, you… what are you doing here?"

The flush of pink on her cheeks turns a few shades darker and she nervously tucks back the strands of hair that have fallen from her messy ponytail.

"Uh, not that you can't be here or anything. I wasn't expecting - I mean, I guess I was really into my book?"

It sounds more like a question than an explanation and it makes him laugh as he scrapes the chair over the tile floor and sits.

"I know I'm not much to look at these days, but seven feet of person is still a lot of overlook," he doesn't bother to hide the amusement in his voice. For some reason, that seems to snap her out of her frazzled state.

"That's not true!"

"Pardon?" He slots the number placard into the display.

"You may not be made of muscle anymore, but you're still very distinctive! And you have a wonderful smile as ever!"

It's his turn to blush and he scratches his cheek with a nervous chuckle.

"Do I? I'm pretty sure most people are unnerved by the skeletal visage."

"Well, maybe at first," she nibbles at the sugar cookie. "But it's pretty endearing once you get used to it."

Thankfully, his order arrives at that moment, so he doesn't have a chance to be flustered. The boy still has stars in his eyes as he sets the saucers down and asks if he can do anything else. Toshinori offers his best All Might grin and a thumbs-up.

"Not at all, young Kenta!"

The boy, Kenta, looks ready to faint at the thought of All Might knowing his name.

"I – uh… how?"

"Your nametag," Toshinori nods at the square of plastic clipped to his apron. "Are you the only employee today?"

"Oh, Kazu's in the back and Tomoyo is on break right now."

"I see. And you three started this place yourself?"

Kenta immediately brightened, losing some of his nervous edge.

"Yeah! Tomoyo can manipulate any hot liquid, and Kazu can make bread rise. We've wanted to open a cafe since middle school!"

"And you stuck with it all this time!" Toshinori pats the young man on the arm. "You three are doing great!"

"Thank you sir!" Kenta is beaming with pride.

"What about you?" his companion interjects. "Do you use your Quirk in the business?" She sounds genuinely interested.

Kenta's shoulders sag a little. "No, I – I'm Quirkless."

Toshinori frowns, opening his mouth to reassure the boy, but she responds before he can.

"Me too! High five, man!"

He perks up again, and the two slap hands with a kindred spirit. She finishes off her cookie.

"You guys are doing a great job; I hope this place takes off for you. I can always use a place to kick back with some sweets." She holds up the crinkled cookie wrapper for emphasis.

"Thank you; both of you," Kenta offers a little bow. "But I need to get back behind the counter. Please come again!" He wanders back to the register as the bell over the door jingles and two more customers walk in.

Toshinori turns back towards his surprise companion.

"You're Quirkless?"

"Hm?" She's sipping at her drink. "Oh, yeah. It didn't really come up last time we met I guess."

"You're remarkably blasé about it. It doesn't bother you?"

She cocks an eyebrow.

"Should it?"

"No, of course not," he raises his palms defensively. "Just, it is something that bothers a lot of Quirkless people. It's good that you're so..." he takes a moment to search for the right word. "Accepting of yourself."

She puts her drink down.

"Yeah, well, it didn't come easy. It did bother me once, but I'm okay now."

He takes a bite of his biscuit; it's delightfully fluffy and buttery.

"Good. That's good."

"What about you? Does it bother you, not having a Quirk anymore?"

He pauses, tea halfway to his lips, before finishing the movement to give himself a moment. The tea is just the slightest bit sweet.

"No, not as such," the porcelain clinks against the saucer. "I don't like how it ended, and it does bother me that I can't help people the way I used to."

He studies the pattern of the wood grain, painted white. "But!" he lifts a finger. "There are still other ways I can help."

She knits her fingers together and rests her chin on them with a smile.

"Like what?"

He smiles. "Even without a Quirk, I still occupy a unique place in society. I will always be famous. And were I to, say, walk into a small business recently started by some high school graduates..." He lets the sentence hang, and she giggles.

"So, you didn't just happen to wander in for something warm to drink then?" She leans back against the bench.

"Well, I didn't intentionally come here; I just happened to be nearby and I'd heard of this place from one of my students." He takes another drink. "I do try to seek out places like this though, when I have some time. I have a lot more of that these days."

"That's… really sweet." She idly sweeps a few crumbs into a small pile with a finger. "It's really wonderful of you to do things like that. I mean, you could spend the rest of your life doing anything now, but you're still helping people."

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly; despite everything, Toshinori has never really gotten used to the praise.

"Yeah, well, it's like you said the first time we met. Heroism was never just a job to me."

She hums, poking her straw at the bottom of her cup around the ice chips to get at the last of her drink.

"Did you ever find an answer to my question?"

He chuckles lightly.

"It's never far from my mind lately."

Which is true – Toshinori has been turning the question over in his mind for nearly two weeks now. What _does_ he want to say? He stares into his tea, contemplating, momentarily unaware of the girl watching him from across the table.

"Uh, I didn't mean you had to answer right away or anything. I mean, I don't even work at the office anymore, so..."

That gets his attention.

"You don't?"

She shrugs lightly, flipping a lock of hair over her shoulder.

"Well, journalism is more concerned with getting the story out quickly, you know? I didn't really come back with anything printable we could run."

His eyes widen.

"You were fired?"

"I mean, I guess?" She gestures into the empty air. "I walked out when he started screaming obscenities and just never went back."

Toshinori feels his shoulders slouching more than they already are.

"I'm so sorry -" he doesn't get a chance to do more than start an apology before she cuts him off.

"Don't worry about it. It's not like the place was anything special." She leans on her elbow with a grin.

"I'm much happier at the bookstore down the street right now anyway. It's part-time so I can focus a little more on freelancing."

It eases his conscience, but only a little. Still, he offers a smile in return.

"That's good then. What sort of freelancing do you do?"

"Writing mostly. A bit of editing. Articles, correcting student essays. That sort of thing."

'So you haven't left the field, just that particular place."

'Yeah. I mean, I write a lot anyway, so I may as well get paid for it. I have a little following for some of my creative stuff, so that's pretty neat. Some friends of mine are in this one actually," she thumbs at the pages of her book.

"Really? Can I see?" He holds a hand out for the book and she passes it over.

He flips idly through the pages. It's a short story collection, interspersed with illustrations.

"I helped edit a couple of the stories, so it's cool to see them in print like this."

"It is! Do you have anything of your own published?"

She looks a little embarrassed. "No, not yet. Maybe one day. I mean, it's a goal of mine, but I'm not actively pursuing it or anything. I'm happy blogging and editing for now."

He hands the book back.

"Do you have a website? I'd love to read some of your work!"

"I – uh… really?"

Toshinori flashes a signatur thumbs-up.

"Really! I've been catching up on my reading now that I have some more time on my hands."

"Ah, well, okay. Hang on," she rummages around in the bag that's been sitting beside her before finding a pen and grabbing a napkin and scrawling a name.

"This is where I post most of my stuff," she hands it over shyly. "There's some actual work posted there, but it's also kinda my daily blog or whatever, so you might have to search a little."

"That's not a problem," he flods the napkin into his breast pocket. "I'm looking forward to browsing around!"

She blushes and scratches the back of her head.

"Thanks," she stands from the table with a stretch. "Sorry to run, but I need to get back to the bookstore. It was nice seeing you again."

"And you as well," he offers with a nod, leaning back into his chair. "I'll see you around?"

"I hope so!" Her grin is infectious. "Thanks for chatting with me."

"Of course."

She half-turns to the door and hesitates a moment, like she has something else to say. It's barely noticeable, but Toshinori has been watching for those instants for a long time.

"Was there something else?"

She hesitates again. "Well..." Her fingers nervously twist at a lock of hair before she makes up her mind.

"I know you're used to this sort of thing but I still feel weird asking, it just seems rude to ask a stranger, but... could I have a picture?"

He has to laugh. "We aren't strangers! We've met twice now, haven't we?" He stands as well, offering an arm. "I don't mind!"

The blush on her cheeks spreads as she ducks under his arm and pulls out her phone. He leans over to better fit in the frame while she lifts the camera and smiles.

"Planning to post that on your blog?" It's meant to be a joke, but she blushes again.

"I mean, if you're okay with it?"

He laughs again, louder this time.

"You don't have to ask me for permission! My face is already plastered all over the place, what's one more?"

She puts the phone back in her bag. "It's still polite to ask."

"That's very kind of you," he reseats himself and lifts his cup. "It's not necessary, but I appreacieate your thoughtfulness."

"You're welcome," she shifts the bag on to her shoulder and offers a small half-wave. "Bye."

"Goodbye," he waves back and returns to his tea, contemplating the possibility of another biscuit. Maybe a half-dozen. Maybe a couple dozen - his students would love that. Ha waves once more as she passes by the window and finishes his drink before heading back to the counter to get a treat for his kids.


	3. Liminal Spaces

It was a few days before he looked up the web address she had given him, caught up as he was with work at the school. It was a lazy Saturday morning when Toshinori popped open his laptop and typed into the search bar.

He found her blog easily enough and clicked on the link where he was greeted by a familiar photo; himself, grinning, one arm around her shoulders as she lifted the camera with a shyly happy expression. Below, a short caption:

_We aren't strangers anymore_

along with a post recapping the day:

_My __first meeting__ with All Might was something of a disaster; thankfully, I managed to keep myself together for the second time! Having met the man twice now, I feel comfortable saying that he really is as nice as he's always seemed on television._

He clicks on the link in the first paragraph, curious about her take on the day they met. Most of the post is a simple recap for her readers, but the writing is interspersed with thoughts and diversions that offer surprising insights into her personality. It's easy to see why she has something of a following.

_He was so kind; just being near him was giving me flashbacks to Kamino - something I still don't feel ready to write about - but he sat with me, letting me work it out of my system. He made me tea. I think it was chamomile._

Huh. So she was in Kamino Ward that night. It does explain a few things about the meeting. Obviously, it wasn't just nerves causing her to act so jumpy. He files the knowledge away for another time.

_His hero form is something of a persona he puts on, but it's not exactly a mask - more like an exaggeration. The person is kind and brave and strong, while the hero is all those things taken to the extreme. It's a matter of intensity, not honesty._

That catches his eye, and makes him smile; he's seen the think-pieces floating around, comparing his dual identities, but this is the first time someone has so clearly _understood_.

"Intensity, not honesty," he murmurs the phrase to himself.

_I know a lot of the reactions have centered on things like "scarecrow" and "skeleton," but I was put more in mind of a sunflower._

Toshinori guffawed at that - skeleton he was used to, and scarecrow was understandable, but sunflower?

_Tall, lanky, yellow hair, sunny disposition - I mean, it fits, right?_

Sunflower. The descriptor wasn't one he would have ever thought of, but it did bring a glow to his chest. Yes, he could work with sunflower.

* * *

**Direct message from: Sunflower220**

It occurred to me after posting a few comments on your posts that I might need to send you a direct message. I suppose a sudden influx of comments from an anonymous stranger would look rather odd, yes? I don't want my behavior to be interpreted poorly, but your ordinary adventures are every bit as fascinating to me as my hero career must be to you.

It's been a long time since I was a civilian - even now, I occupy a unique place in society. My power is gone, but the fame remains. Seeing the world from the perspective of the people I protected through your posts was an absolute joy. I will, of course, back away if you wish it - I understand that the attention may be overbearing, even unnerving, and I don't wish to cause you any discomfort. Thank you for giving me this glimpse into your world.

Regards,

All Might

P.S. - I was absolutely tickled to be compared to a sunflower! I made it my username - do you like it?

**Direct message to: Sunflower220**

Thank you for the heads-up, but I don't mind at all! I'm glad you enjoy my ramblings. You've fought to protect us all for such a long time - if I can do anything in return, even this small joy, then that's enough heroism for me.

And I love your screen name! The 220 is for your height, right? It suits you!

**Direct message from: Sunflower220**

Ah, so you _are _a fan to know my height so easily.

**Direct message to: Sunflower220**

Well, yes. Everyone's a fan of All Might, especially now.

**Direct message from: Sunflower220**

I must admit, I find myself bemused to still be so highly reguarded by the world. I'm flattered that so many people still see me as a hero.

**Direct message to: Sunflower220**

Why? You are.

* * *

_She cleaned my room while I was gone. Picked up the floor, vacuumed the rug, made the bed. The mess makes her grouchy, twitchy. But my mess and her mess are different creatures; hers are monsters to be conquered; mine are companions to be loved. A perfectly smooth river stone; ticket scraps to each concert; a woven basket crafted in Mexico. My bookshelves overflow and my floor is scuffed and my desk is covered in paint stains and each flaw is a memory and each mess is an experience. My rumpled bedsheets know the curve of my body; my shoes are always ready to walk __out the door; the bottom left drawer of my desk gets stuck, and I'm okay with that._

_It's fine. It's secondhand, worn and loved, and does its job faithfully. And when it gets stuck, I only need to pull a little harder._

**Comment from Sunflower220**

You are so very gifted at capturing the magic in the ordinary; I'm honestly jealous! My desk only gets covered in paperwork.

**Reply to Sunflower220**

Ah, thank you! I do have a proper desk for all kinds of paperwork, but this one was for my little art-stuff desk.

* * *

_I had lost count of the stations. Was it seven, or eight coming up? There were no numbers on the platforms. I could feel the train beginning to slow down as the iron girders outside became less of a blur. The train stopped._

_I saw him then – that shock of white hair, shining between the shadows of people boarding the train. I stood up, making my way through, trying not to bump into anyone, or their luggage. The newcomers seated themselves quickly, like they knew exactly where they were meant to be. Like they had always been on this car._

_The whistle blew suddenly and I jumped, jerking my head to the window. Only Dios was left at the station, and the doors were still at the other end of the car. My stomach lurched – I had to get off, now. I pushed my way past, no longer mindful of tact; it was blocking my way. I jumped over a travel case; I think I may have elbowed someone. Something caught my foot and I fell, grabbing at a train pole to steady myself – my hands slid right down and I landed on my face. My stomach lurched again and I scrambled up, trying to kick off the handbag loop my shoe was caught in. The lady in her seat didn't even look up from her hands._

_I heard the train hissing as the steam began to build. I looked up – Dios had rushed up the platform, right to the door._

_"Get off the train!" Another hiss as the pneumatic doors began to close. I kicked off my shoe, tripping again, trying to reach the end of the car, too late. My hands slammed against the window. Dios looked at me briefly from the other side, and disappeared suddenly as the train lurched. I fell for the third time in as many minutes, just catching a glimpse of white hair running to the engine car._

**Comment from Sunflower220**

Well?! PLEASE tell me there's more to this story. What happens next?!

**Reply to Sunflower220**

I don't know! That's as far as my dream got before I woke up!

* * *

_I'm not suggesting that Endeavor can reproduce asexually, but has anyone ever actually seen his wife?  
_

**Comment from Sunflower220**

I wish I could simply laugh this off, but, unfortunately, I have not.

* * *

_Bit of bronchitis. That's what I get for waiting so long to go to the doctor I guess. Thankfully, it wasn't very advanced and I'm largely out of the woods after two weeks of illness, even if I did cough so hard I made myself vomit today. **That** was a new experience, let me tell you._

_I didn't go to bed until 7am this morning, so my sleep schedule is once again shot to hell. I went to eat breakfast, then went to bed. I've got a few days of antibiotics left, and I'm on a steroid I have to take very 12 hours. Still a bit sensitive to light, but I think my headaches are gone._

**Comment from Sunflower220  
**

I feel a little silly commenting on a post that's years old now, but this is so relatable to me. Late nights, out-of-sync circadian rhythm, the coughing - believe me, you can vomit up **much** worse from coughing like that.

**Reply to Sunflower220**

You don't have to feel awkward about commenting - I like it! It's like getting a little reminder every now and then. I actually haven't had bronchitis since his post, so that's something to be grateful for ^^ I'll take your word for it about the coughing though.

* * *

_The poetry professor doesn't look like she's from Kentucky; she doesn't look like anyone from below the Mason-Dixon Line with her high heels, patterned stockings and lion's mane of blonde corkscrews. But sometimes she talks about Momma, chicken wire fences, and bare feet summers and maybe I could see her in scraped-knee jeans instead of pencil skirts._

_Throat cancer took his hair, but not his brain, nor his chipper attitude. He strides long, like a black-necked stilt of his native Louisiana, and whistles like a fox sparrow underneath his fedora. His classes lay cuckoo eggs in our ears that hatch into vague feelers of ideas, burrowed somewhere in the unconscious until we collage it with the other wreckages of forgotten memory patterns that sleep in nests made of mirror shards and Christmas lights._

_The education professor is a whirlwind of high energy and charisma on his best days. Lately though, his blue, Pilot ballpoint pens are running empty, ink pooling in messy splotches on ungraded essays. The strain of two positions, teacher and administrator, gets to him. His exhaustion makes me tired; to see the vitality being siphoned out of his slender frame by the routine wear and tear that has faded his two-button jackets, frayed his loose shoelaces, and settled, like those last drops of ink, into the hollows under his eyes, until a good night's sleep bleeds the lakebed dry. _

**Comment from Sunflower220**

Were these were all teachers of yours? The descriptions are so real.

**Reply to Sunflower220**

Yes! I butted heads with the poetry professor all the time; I hated her classes, but I had to take them for my degree.

**Reply from Sunflower220**

I sympathize with the education professor - I too find myself exhausted after a day of dealing with students.

**Reply to Sunflower220**

He's one of my best friends - we're still close, years after I graduated.

**Reply from Sunflower220**

That's wonderful! I hope I can say the same thing about my students in the future!

* * *

_What kind of tree is Kamui Woods supposed to be anyway? Oak? Willow? Ash? Cedar? THE WORLD NEEDS ANSWERS!  
_

**Comment from Sunflower220  
**

I'm partial to cedar trees myself! That said, I have no idea.

**Reply to Sunflower220  
**

I love cedar trees! They smell divine. But my favorites are willow trees and cypress trees - I love cypress roots.

**Reply from Sunflower220  
**

Is there something special about the roots?

**Reply to Sunflower220  
**

Yes! Cypress trees that grow in swampy areas have these "knee" roots. It's probably easier to look it up than to explain.

**Reply from Sunflower220  
**

I see! It does look rather strange, all the roots poking up through the water.

**Reply to Sunflower220  
**

It's neat though, right? There's a mountain trail I used to hike as a kid that went past loads of cypress trees. We used to balance walking on them, and played in the hollow trunks. Once, I saw a wild snapping turtle on the other side of the bank, so that was pretty cool.

* * *

_There's this thing I do when I stay up late; I get more and more tired the later I stay up, but, if I make it past a certain point, usually about 4AM, I can stay up indefinitely. I say indefinitely because I don't actually know how far I could go - I've never been brave enough to really press it. Anyway, I couldn't sleep Sunday night/Monday morning. Could. Not. Sleep. Around 4:30AM, I realize it's not happening and get up. My legs were bothering me for some reason, so I hit the gym for 20, 30 minutes. Still not tired. Hop in the car for a drive. Still not tired. Keep driving and somehow end up some thirty miles away watching the sun rise at 7AM over the river._

_It's about 8AM by the time I leave and not only am I not tired, I'm actually feeling kinda invigorated and excited about life. I suspect I was high on the lucidity of no sleep, but nevertheless. I'm still not tired, so I go to a local cafe for a buttermilk spice muffin and a hot chocolate._

_Finally got home around 9 or so and went back to bed because I didn't know what else to do with myself._

**Comment from Sunflower220  
**

I've had many a night like this, though it usually had more to do with adrenaline than anything else. I can honestly say that not having to deal with that anymore is one good thing about retiring.

**Reply to Sunflower220  
**

At least you had a reason to be awake; just being up for no good reason sucks. Usually I can manage to get down eventually, but something like this seems to happen to me at least once a year.

**Reply from Sunflower220  
**

It could be worse; there could be nightmares instead.

**Reply to Sunflower220  
**

I've become familiar with that in the last few months.

* * *

_A conversation with my former professor:_

_"I don't even remember what it was like being 29. I think it was miserable."_

_"It is. Just gonna be miserable for the rest of my days."_

_"It gets better when you're 30. And it gets better again when you're 40. By the time you're 50 - "_

_"Is that what you tell yourself to comfort the blows of old age?"_

_"Yes. I'm comforting myself right now."_

**Comment from Sunflower220  
**

Is this the same teacher from that one post I commented on?

**Reply to Sunflower220  
**

Yes! The education professor. We try to chat on the phone at least once a week.

**Reply from Sunflower220  
**

You're making me excited about teaching! I want to have a relationship like this with my students one day. They're going to be great heroes.

* * *

__The universe hates me. I sincerely believed it in that moment. It hates me. Only a hateful universe gives you a perfect moment when you're that miserable._ _

_But ma__ybe it made it up to me later. Halfway home, past Conway, I start getting close to the rain I've been expecting and up ahead it's all stormclouds. The sky is this dark blue grey color and the lightning is this creamy off white shade – you could see it lighting up between the clouds and behind them, undulating back and forth and then bolting in a sudden release of energy like birds startled by a gunshot. The bigger flashes were a purer white with a soft blue tinge. They were the ones that lit up the whole sky._

_So I'm home free, crossing the Arkansas River and halfway across the bridge the rain just stops. It picks up again when I get across, but in that halfway point I've got lightning on one side and the last smoky traces of dusk on the other stretching out like a painted desert and I'm the only person on the bridge, watching to world split in two._

**Comment from Sunflower220  
**

Have you ever considered writing screenplays? I can see this image in my head like a film reel. It's beautiful and dramatic.

I've always loved finding the place where the rain stops; it's like the world is a little bit thinner there. It's a strange, almost unnerving feeling, but one I've chased in the past.

**Reply to Sunflower220**

I think what you may looking for is called liminality, or a liminal space. Places like airports, crossroads, rest stops, hallways - they're bridges to other places, but don't really serve a purpose in and of themselves. Places of transition from one thing to the next.

Historically, the concept of liminality has been used to describe rites of passage, especially the passage from childhood to adulthood. Many cultures have some sort of ceremony the child has to go through before coming out the other side as an adult. But, in the time between starting and finishing the ritual, the person is considered neither child nor adult - they exist in a liminal state until the ritual is complete.

Now that I think about it, you're probably pretty familiar with liminality, aren't you?

* * *

**Direct message from: Sunflower220  
**

Sorry for the radio silence - I didn't mean to drop off so suddenly, and then it turned into a few days.

I've been thinking a lot about what you said. About liminality. You're right - I am very familiar with the concept, though I never had a name for it until now. You wrote once that the difference between my forms was "a matter of intensity, not honesty;" in six words, you captured something I've never been able to explain. You do did it so succinctly, so effortlessly, that it left me a little bit stunned.

I have been All Might for so long; in many ways, I'm re-learning how to live without that intensity. I understand liminality because I've been in a liminal state for going on six years now. To finally have a name for it feels like a relief. More than that though, it's immensely gratifying to feel _understood_, by what you captured so easily in half a phrase. I'm grateful to you. Thank you.

The day we met, you told me that you didn't want to be someone else that took something from me. But I'd like to give you something all the same:

My name is Toshinori.


End file.
